As the Northern Hemisphere pitches towards the dark time, we hang lights on trees inside and outside our houses. I think about how Jesus said, “I am the light of the world.”
William Paul Young, author of “The Shack,” said that “according to John’s gospel, Jesus said this during the great day of the Feast of Booths, when young men climbed onto lampstands seventy-five feet high. They poured oil and set them on fire.” Jesus, the light of the world, said this under gigantic torches roaring, that lit up Jerusalem.
As light slips into my home and barn, I am reminded how it slides into the humble places -- our bedroom as the morning sun throws pink light along our hallway, the walls of our barn as the western sun drops too fast towards the horizon. I see it in my neighbor who sends a picture of the neighborhood owl just to share wonder. I see it in people who say they will pray.
But what startles me the most is how this light of the world, swept down from holding creation together, into a woman’s womb, curled up, dependent on a mere girl to change his diapers, nurse him, soothe him when he cried. We despised and rejected the man who said, “If you want to see God, look at me.” This man of sorrows, this God, did everything human. He died. He rose. And now he sits in heaven as a resurrected human, the firstborn of all creation. He will come again.
I’m Katie Andraskiand this is my reflection on Advent.
